Stealing eggs is a lot harder than stealing the whole chicken. With chickens, you just grab a hen, stuff her in a sack and make your escape. But for eggs, you have to stick your hand under a sleeping bird. Chickens donât like this. They wake all spooked and start pecking holes in your arm, or your face if itâs close. And they squawk something terrible.
The trick is to wake the chicken first, then go for the eggs. Iâm embarrassed to say how long it took me to figure this out.
âGood morning, little hen,â I sang softly. The chicken blinked awake and cocked her head at me. She didnât get to squawking, just flapped her wings a bit as I lifted her off the nest; sheâd soon settle down once I tucked her under my arm. Iâd overheard that trick from a couple of boys Iâd unloaded fish with last week.
A voice came from beside me. âDonât move.â
Two words I didnât want to hear with someone elseâs chicken under my arm.
I froze. The chicken didnât. Her scaly feet flailed towards the eggs that should have been my breakfast. I looked up to see a cute night guard not much older than me, perhaps sixteen. The night was more humid than usual, but a slight breeze blew his sandpale hair. A soldierâs cut, but a month or two grown out.
Stay calm; stay alert. As Grannyma used to say, if youâre caught with the cake, you might as well offer them a piece. Not sure how that applied to chickens though.
âJoin me for breakfast when your shift ends?â I asked. Sunrise was two hours away.
The guard smiled, but aimed his rapier at my chest anyway. Was nice to have a handsome boy smile at me in the moonlight, but his was a sad, sorry-only-doing-my-job smile. Iâd learned to tell the difference between smiles a lot faster than Iâd figured out the egg thing.
âSo, Heclar,â he said over his shoulder, âyou do have a thief. Guess I was wrong.â
Rancher Heclar strutted into view, bearing an uncanny resemblance to the chicken trying to peck meâruffled, sharp beaked and beady-eyed. He harrumphed and set his fists against his hips. âI told you crocodiles werenât getting them.â
âIâm no chicken thief,â I said quickly.
âThen whatâs that?â The night guard flicked his rapier tip towards the chicken and smiled again. Friendlier this time, but his deep brown eyes had twitched when he bent his wrist.
âA chicken.â I blew a stray feather off my chin and peered closer. His knuckles were white from too tight a grip on so light a weapon. That had to mean joint pain, maybe even knuckleburn, though he was far too young for it. The painful joint infection usually hit older dockworkers. I guess thatâs why he had a crummy job guarding chickens instead of aristocrats. My luck hadnât been too great either.
âLook,â I said, âI wasnât going to steal her. She was blocking the eggs.â
The night guard nodded like he understood and turned to Heclar. âSheâs just hungry. Maybe you could let her go with a warning?â
âArrest her, you idiot! Sheâll get fed in Dorsta.â
Dorsta? I gulped. âListen, two eggs for breakfast is hardly worth prisonââ
âThieves belong in prison!â
I jerked back and my foot squished into chicken crap. Lots of it. It dripped out from every coop in the row. There had to be at least sixty filthy coops along the lakeside half of the isle alone. âIâll work off the eggs. What about two eggs for every row of coops I clean?â
âYouâll only steal three.â
âNot if he watches me.â I tipped my head at the night guard. I could handle the smell if I had cute company while I worked. He might even get extra pay out of it, which could earn me some goodwill if we ever bumped into each other in the moonlight again. âHow about one egg per row?â
The night guard pursed his lips and nodded. âPretty good deal there.â
âArrest her now!â
I heaved the chicken. She squawked, flapping and scratching in a panic. The night guard yelped and dropped the rapier. I ran like hell.
âStop! Thief!â
Self-righteous ranchers I could outrun, even on their own property, but the night guard? His hands might be bad, but his feetâand reflexesâworked just fine.
I rounded a stack of broken coops an arm-swipe faster than he did. Without slowing I dodged left, cutting up a corn-littered row of coops running parallel to Farm-Market Canal. It gained me a few paces, but he had the reach on my short legs. No chance of outrunning him on the straight.